


Bits from Honest Songs 'verse

by MDJensen



Series: Honest Songs/Distillery 'verse [7]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Chapters are not connected, Cuddles, Gen, a little crying, bits and pieces, kind of a junk drawer of a fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-08-20 04:00:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8235332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: Bits and Pieces from my Honest Songs/distillery 'verse that just didn't fit elsewhere. Generally these are less than 2k and the ones I post on their own are 2k or more, but... I break that rule nearly as much as I follow it.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo opinions were mixed as to which I should work on first, an _Honest Songs_ prequel or a _Chronicles_ sequel. Therefore I continue to work on them both, and we'll see which one I finish first. I'm disappointingly (to myself, I mean) far away from finishing either, and just missed posting so I decide to stick up a few little snippets that have just been floating around my harddrive. They aren't in any particular order, and may not make sense if you haven't read _Honest Songs_ , but I hope you enjoy :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deleted Scene from _Honest Songs_ : Athos is still finding his footing after changing back. But the others are just happy he's letting them help.

The next day, they decided to venture into down. In addition to the need for a shaving kit, Athos and Aramis had been sharing clothes, and both seemed a little tired of it. It was not unheard of for Athos, though more sure-footed now, to stumble over his trousers hems. Neither was it an uncommon occurrence for Aramis to stomp around looking for the shirt that Athos was already wearing-- and though these mishaps delighted Porthos and d’Artagnan, they did not delight their victims.

A trip to town was in order. Athos, who had not even gone to Mass in a month, seemed eager to venture out-- but nervous when at last they reached the horse enclosure. “What’s everyone going to say?” he mused. “When they see me around instead of Olivier?”

“I’ve planted that seed already,” Aramis admitted. “Been saying he’s gone to be an artist’s apprentice.”

“And me?”

“Another stray from their musketeer days,” d’Artagnan teased.

“Exactly,” Aramis replied. “We’re just four old soldiers looking for some peace and quiet.”

Porthos snorted. “‘cept durin’ harvest.”

“Mm. Am I still on jam detail?” Athos wondered. “Or is my newly improved reach going to force me to stay in the orchard?”

“Porthos was always on jam detail,” Aramis replied thoughtfully. “And his are the longest arms of all.”

Porthos shrugged, in the manner of somebody who’d gotten away with something. The four of them mounted and set off.

It showed Athos’ nerves, d’Artagnan thought as they rode, how quickly he’d changed the topic. He wasn’t usually one to do so. He was aware, then-- and how could he not be?-- of how gossipy, how intrusive some of their neighbors could be, and coupled with his own still-adjusting sense of self, d’Artagnan knew that this simple trip into town was something of a test in his mind.

But it was a test they all passed. Two or three people asked after Ollie, and the shoemaker wanted a lengthier introduction on Athos himself than they had prepared. But in the end the world went about its own business. They purchased the necessary clothes for Athos, as well as boots, a shaving kit, and some baked goods to treat themselves with; loaded it all into the saddlebags, and returned.

Nothing had gone badly. And yet Athos was silent on the ride home, stroking Miel’s mane thoughtfully, keeping his eyes on the road ahead. More telling still, he wobbled a little on the dismount, once home. D’Artagnan shared a look with Porthos, who then shared one with Aramis, but nobody commented just yet. When Athos did not look up, though, Porthos stepped forward.

“How’re you doin’?” he prompted, and Athos nodded absently.

“All right. I’m just-- I think I’ll go and visit the cats for a minute.”

His voice, though steadier than it might have been, was the slightest bit tearful; d’Artagnan and the others gave him as long as it took to see to the horses before joining him in the barn.

There they found him with his head in his hands, seated on a pile of hay. Porthos wasted no time in plopping down beside him and grabbing him up in a massive hug, causing Athos to snort a little. He emerged from behind his hands, revealing a wet face.

D’Artagnan lowered himself into the hay beside them, mussing Athos’ hair fondly; Aramis knelt before them and brushed a tear from Athos’ cheek with the pad of his thumb. “Did something happen we didn’t see?” he asked quietly.

“No,” Athos replied, scrubbing the rest of the tears away himself. “I really am all right, too. Nothing happened.”

“Just still sortin’ through it all?” Porthos suggested, and Athos nodded gratefully. He leaned up against Porthos and sniffled; his eyes closed a moment before opening again, swimming with fresh tears.

“I’ve also been thinking-- our story has been all right for our neighbors. But what about G-Gustave?”

D’Artagnan pulled him away from Porthos and hugged him tightly. Olivier had been terribly fond of his father’s older brother, and Athos, the first time ‘round, had been friends with Gustave, too.

For a moment it seemed that Aramis was stumped. Then finally he shrugged and replied lightly, “he deserves the truth, I suppose. And I’d worry more about getting him to believe it than I would about him minding. Look, I know it isn’t easy. The change, I mean. It wasn’t easy the first time, either, but you mostly slept through that bit.”

At this Athos smiled, a bit timidly.

“But,” Aramis continued. “We’re here, Ath. I hope you know that. The three of us are here for you, ‘til the end of the road.”

“I know that,” Athos replied, with the tone of somebody who, in fact, did. He pulled away. “I’m all right. Really. Just-- crying for some reason. I don’t know.” He shrugged, a little helplessly.

“Takin’ after me, I’ve said,” Porthos teased, at the same time that Aramis soothed, “as much as you need to, _querido_.”

Tears crept down Athos’ face, along the lines of his nose, around the curves of his timid smile. “You don’t need to put a name to it, _frair_ ,” d’Artagnan added gently. “Sad, happy, it doesn’t matter. Sometimes you’re feeling too much and it’s the only thing left to do.”

Athos slumped abruptly, completely, as though boneless. Porthos chuckled, grabbed him under the arms, and hauled him right into his lap. “This was easier when you weighed, y’know, what a nine-year-old weighs,” he teased.

“Easier when I had nine-year-old joints, too,” Athos burbled, voice muffled against Porthos’ chest; Porthos cuddled him close and rocked him through his tears. D’Artagnan rubbed his arm. Aramis crawled to Porthos’ other side and settled in, slinging his arms around the huddle. They stayed this way a while. And Athos, despite his tears, seemed utterly at ease; true, d’Artagnan could not see his face, but the way he was sprawled across Porthos, the way he was sighing now and then, soft and slow, gave the impression of a man who felt no shame for his current situation. Who intended, quite fully, to stay as long as he liked.

D’Artagnan regarded him fondly, running his fingers sedately down his Athos’ arm again and again; it was then he noticed something new. Porthos eyes were watery, his face a little twisted. “You too?” d’Artagnan teased, brushing a hand through Porthos’ hair. Porthos, instead of replying, winced, pulled in a massive breath-- and then sneezed tremendously.

In the silence that followed he burst out laughing. D’Artagnan did as well, but Aramis did not-- at least not until Athos lifted his head with an expression so offended that he might have just been spat upon (though perhaps, unfortunately, he had been).

“Is that my cue, then?” he drawled. His voice was steady, and when he wiped his cheeks dry no new tears replaced the old.

“Well, it does seem like you’re feeling better,” d’Artagnan noted, earning him a sulky frown. “Is that not true?”

“He’s feelin’ better but he doesn’t wanna say it because he wants more cuddles,” Porthos replied. “Don’t deny it, _cheri_.”

Athos did not deny it, only sniffled quietly and continued to pout a little.

“Don’t fuss,” Aramis scolded. “We’ll cuddle you more back at the house, only I don’t think the barn roof could survive another of Porthos’ sneezes.”

They returned to the main house. Apparently exhausted, if not by their trip to town then by his catharsis in the barn, Athos lured d’Artagnan over to sit on a bench with him, then promptly fell asleep on his shoulder.

D’Artagnan petted Athos’ hair gently. There had been a time-- more than ten years ago, to be fair, but still well within memory-- that Athos had to be drunk to high heavens or legitimately distraught to allow such comfort to occur. Today, well, he’d been a little weepy, but that was all. By his old rules it never would have been enough to allow something like this, and d’Artagnan was struck yet again by how himself Athos still was, and yet how different. Still solemn, still pensive, still kind. But, having been raised to encourage such things, he was a _tactile_ person now, seeking physical comfort easily whereas before it had been a last resort.

D’Artagnan loved it.

Aramis’ thoughts must have been similar, as he settled on the opposite bench. “Am I imagining things,” he mused, “or is he even clingier than he was as Olivier?”

“Hands up who minds,” Porthos said, joining Aramis, and the three of them laughed quietly as all hands stayed down.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deleted Scene from _Honest Songs_ : It's one of d'Artagnan's first nights at the distillery, and his stomach isn't happy about all the fancy food he's been eating there. Porthos thinks a cuddle might help.

He hadn’t lit any candles, but d’Artagnan could see well enough by the light of the moon streaming in the windows. Real _glass_ windows-- he still couldn’t get over that. Besides, he wasn’t trying to read or do any handiwork anyway, just trying to get his stomach to settle enough so that he could go back to sleep.

Dinner had been _amazing_. As had lunch, and breakfast, as had been everything all week, but as happy as it made d’Artagnan was as unhappy as it made his belly. He’d not had butter or sugar or milk in ages. Not to mention good wine or fresh fruits and vegetables. He wondered idly which had been the worse idea: how much he’d stuffed himself with, or indulging in the rich food to begin with.

No matter; he wasn’t used to sleeping much anyway. He’d gotten at least two hours in before waking to the cramps, and even then he’d dozed another short while before realizing he couldn’t simply will away his need for the washroom.

That had been-- well, he wasn’t sure quite how long. But it was still hours until sunrise, and if he could just calm himself and his insides he might well be able to get back to sleep.

Or at least go back to the guest room before anybody caught him here.

(Or not.)  

D’Artagnan’s eyes caught a movement across the room, and he whipped his head around to find Porthos’ silhouette filling the doorway. He sighed, sinking back down to the bench.

“Hey,” Porthos said, making no comment on how very close d’Artagnan had come to rushing him.

“Hey,” d’Artagnan murmured.

“Everythin’ all right?”

“Yeah. Fine.”

“Couldn’t sleep?”

“Mm.”

“Dreams?”

“What? No. My, um. I’ve just got a bit of a stomachache,” d’Artagnan admitted, looking down. He’d hardly wanted to wake any of his friends, but now that Porthos was here-- well. He quite desperately wanted him to stay.

And Porthos, being Porthos, came over, perched on the edge of the bench by d’Artagnan’s feet. “We’ve got ginger in. Want some tea?”

“No, thanks. I’m not nauseous. It’s just, y’know. A stomachache.” He quite deliberately neglected to mention that he’d made three trips to the chamberpot since waking; he was too sick and too tired to be as embarrassed by this as he might otherwise have been, but still some discretion seemed mannerly. 

Porthos considered him a long moment. “Just seems kinda lonely out here. You wanna lie down in my room? It’s closer to the washroom. In case y’need it.”

“I’ve already woken you up, Porthos,” d’Artagnan sighed-- though yes, Christ, it was lonely. He was lonely. “The last thing I want to do is keep you up.”

“You wouldn’t. An’ even if you did, I wouldn’t mind. C’mon. Come lie down.”

D’Artagnan raised his head and Porthos looked him calmly in the eye; in that moment the issue was settled. His stomach cramped as he pushed to his feet. But Porthos’ hand at his back was steady and familiar, and he leaned gratefully into it as he hobbled towards the hallway.  D’Artagnan bit back a grunt as they reached Porthos’ room.

“Shh,” Porthos soothed, guiding him inside.

“‘s just a stomachache,” d’Artagnan grumbled, a little self-consciously, but couldn’t deny how good it would feel to lie down and maybe be held a moment. 

“Don’t see me fussin’, do ya?”

“A little,” d’Artagnan replied, and Porthos chuckled.

“All right, well, mostly just Aramis for company for eight years-- that’ll do it.”

They lay down. It was cooler in Porthos’ room than in the sitting room, and d’Artagnan realized belatedly how hot he was. 

“You want another blanket?” Porthos whispered. “You’re kinda shivery.”

“Fussing again,” d’Artagnan teased, but he really was quite glad for it, and for the excuse to move a bit closer. Porthos lifted a tentative hand to brush back his hair. 

It wasn’t until Porthos laughed that d’Artagnan realized he’d closed his eyes, lost himself to a moment of unexpected bliss. His stomach still ached. He felt weak and a little light-headed, but it had been so long since anybody had simply soothed him-- so damn long-- 

“If you needa fart, you jus’ go ahead an’ fart.”

Now it was d’Artagnan’s turn to burst out laughing; he opened his eyes as well. 

“Leave it to you to create this lovely moment, then smash it to pieces.”

Porthos shrugged, unfazed. “Jus’ offerin’. Only if it’s more’ a fart, try your best to get to the washroom first. Hah! Captain of the musketeers and still my little pup-- made you blush.”

“Am I?”

“Still my little pup? ‘course you are.” And Porthos leaned over and kissed d’Artagnan’s forehead, with all the same tenderness and love with which he kissed Olivier. 

“I meant, am I blushing?” d’Artagnan rasped, a small but noticeable lump lodged all at once in his throat. 

“The hell should I know? No candles lit.”

D’Artagnan’s stomach chose that moment to cramp terribly, and he only narrowly avoided slipping right into his captain’s mode. He didn’t, though; instead he grunted softly.

“Any better lyin’ down?”

“No,” d’Artagnan whispered. “I don’t feel well, Porthos.”

“I know, cheri,” Porthos murmured. “You wanna warm water pot? Aramis’ got one.”

“Mm. Let’s wake Athos while we’re at it; tell the whole damn house the captain’s got tummyache--”

Porthos did not rise to the barb. D’Artagnan blinked furiously, though his friend would not see tears welling in the darkness. He rolled away, breathing hard. 

“Sorry,” he gasped out, after a moment. “I make one hell of an ungrateful guest, I know.”

“Hush.” Porthos’ fingers were strong and grounding as they wove into his. “Ain’t nobody here but me, an’ I’m not holdin’ you here. You can leave if you like, an’ I’ll never speak a word of this.”

From the way d’Artagnan tightened his hand around Porthos’, anyone might have thought him dangling from a cliff. “No. I don’t want-- I don’t want to be alone. I just-- that’s all I know how to be, anymore.”

“It’ll come back to you,” Porthos soothed. “Meantime you just close your eyes and try t’sleep, all right?”

D’Artagnan shut his eyes, succeeding-- if only just-- of keeping back the tears. He shimmied closer. Porthos’ hand let go of his, began to stroke through his hair.

“Fuck,” d’Artagnan breathed, eyes popping open. “‘ve gotta-- ugh.”

The pressure in his guts had built once again to a crescendo; he bolted into the hallway and through to the washroom, so mortified that the tears nearly fell.

Porthos did not come looking for him. But when at last d’Artagnan was ready to lie down, he peeked into the hall and saw Porthos’ door cracked open, though he knew that he had closed it. Accepting the invitation, he slipped inside. 

Porthos was silent and still, possibly even asleep, as d’Artagnan lowered himself down into the empty space. But through the dark he saw the brown eyes were open.

The hand was back at d’Artagnan’s brow now, though unlike before it did not soothe, instead testing for fever. “Should I worry?”

D’Artagnan shook his head, knowing Porthos could feel if not see it. “‘m fine. Just-- do you know how long it had been since I’d had butter?”

“Mm. Hardly eased yourself back in, either. Coulda done the whole loaf with what you put on one piece.”

“Don’t suppose you’ve got any hard tack or salted fish?”

“No. You could eat, y’know. Bread without butter, if you needed to.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” d’Artagnan joked, weakly.

“Mm. Where’s the fun in this?”

D’Artagnan sighed.

“Jus’ teasin’,” Porthos murmured, pulling the blankets over d’Artagnan, up to his chest. “You’ll be used to it soon enough.”

“Porthos,” d’Artagnan began, then stopped himself. No need to say what they both knew damn well: he wasn’t staying.

He couldn’t stay.

“Right,” Porthos murmured, and wiggled a little further under the blankets. “Not sayin’ nothin’. Think you can sleep now, pup?”

“Yeah,” d’Artagnan whispered, hoping he was right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suppose I should warn you that most of the bits I'll put up here are sort of gratuitously h/c. It's why most of them were deleted in the first place. I love scenes like this but I'm well aware a fic can have too many... but now here I am posting them anyway... oh well :)


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Random Bit: Laryngitis hits the distillery, but the boys don’t need voices to speak. Not a deleted scene, as it was never part of any story, but just something I felt like writing one day :) Teensy, _weensy_ bit of hurt and heaps of comfort. Something of a no-dialogue challenge.

D’Artagnan woke naturally, well before the sun, as he did every other morning; unlike most other mornings, though, he was forced to think somewhat sternly at himself to work up the energy to rise. He’d been under the weather a few days now. It was nothing to fret about-- even Aramis was unconcerned-- for there was no fever, and only a light cough. Still he was sleepier than usual. His bed was warm, his quilt soft and heavy, and did anything truly _need_ to be accomplished today?

D’Artagnan sighed, pulled himself out of bed. At death’s door, he was not, though his throat was bothering him more than it had yesterday, and he wondered idly if his illness would take the course of Porthos’. Probably not. Porthos-- who had a stomach of iron, came down with a headache perhaps once a year if that-- was always the worst affected by ailments of the throat. He’d lost his voice four days ago and had yet to regain it. The rest of them had made no attempts to keep themselves apart, and had one by one caught the cold, but surely Porthos would be the only one affected by actual laryngitis.

Though, thinking of it, Athos had been rasping quite badly last night.

And actually--

D’Artagnan opened his mouth, tried to force out a wordless sound.

None came.

His voice was gone.

After the initial flash of annoyance, he couldn’t fight back a smile; all the maladies of his life now paled so thoroughly in comparison to his past that he found he couldn’t be truly angered by much of anything.

Still Porthos deserved a talking-to. Or more accurately, a silent glaring-at.

Fetching his cane from where it leaned against his nightstand, d’Artagnan went-- still in his nightshirt-- to Porthos’ room at the other end of the hallway. He knocked once before entering and found Porthos at his bureau, lacing up his trousers.

Porthos smiled, gave an exaggerated wave; d’Artagnan stalked to his bed, sat, crossed his arms, and frowned.

Porthos raised an eyebrow.

D’Artagnan forced his frown to deepen and, when Porthos still only shrugged, gave up and pointed at his own throat. To drive the message home, he moved his mouth silently.

Porthos’ lips formed an _oh_ \-- then he laughed, without noise. _Sorry_ , he mouthed.

He didn’t really look it, but d’Artagnan was satisfied that he was properly chastised; besides, he was back in bed, even though it wasn’t his bed, and instead of glaring at Porthos any longer he lay back, curled up, and closed his eyes.

He opened them a moment later, when he felt a hand press to his forehead. Porthos was crouched before him, real concern on his face, so d’Artagnan made himself smile and sit up again.

 _I’m all right_ , he mouthed. He put his own hand to his brow then shook his head-- no fever. He didn’t even feel all that achy, really. He simply had no voice.

Seeing he was well enough, Porthos shooed him away; d’Artagnan went back to his own room and got dressed. The first pink of the sunrise was showing out his window. He went out to the kitchen, where he found Porthos and Athos, working in silence to cook eggs and knead bread dough.

They both looked up as d’Artagnan entered, and Porthos grinned. He pointed at Athos, shook his head, and after a minute d’Artagnan understood: Athos had lost his voice as well.

A robust lot, they were.

Silence draped more naturally around Athos than it did around Porthos, or d’Artagnan himself. This early in the morning, Athos typically said very little anyway. He merely continued working a large ball of dough against the surface of the table, nodding when d’Artagnan passed him more flour, tossing his head when Aramis came into the kitchen and greeted him by stroking through his hair.

Porthos pulled Aramis into a lazy hug, in lieu of a greeting. D’Artagnan waited for him to look up before waving and gesturing to his throat to explain his own silence.

Aramis opened his mouth, made to reply--

And gave only a soft, scraping croak, the sound of which caused his eyes to widen a bit.

Porthos snickered, noiselessly.

Not one of the four of them had a voice to speak of-- or speak _with_ , as the case indeed was.

But none of them were very ill, either; Athos and d’Artagnan were coughing a bit more by the end of breakfast, and Aramis looked a bit grey, but nobody required bedrest. They ate their breakfast, set the bread dough to rise, and pulled on their boots to see to their chores.

At the door, though, Aramis paused, looking somewhat stricken; d’Artagnan did not remember why, until he saw Aramis’ fingers running over his rosary. This was the time, every morning, that Aramis prayed over them each in turn. That he could not do so seemed to bother him greatly, and d’Artagnan was not sure how to handle it. Then Athos walked up to Aramis and bowed his head.

Sighing, tension easing, Aramis made the sign of the cross over Athos’ brow and sealed the blessing there with a gentle kiss. Taking his cue, d’Artagnan followed. The touch of Aramis’ thumb was a familiar thing, and if d’Artagnan missed his soft, low Latin, it was suitably replaced by the brush of his lips.

Aramis blessed Porthos then, and seemed to feel much better. The three of them set out through the front door while d’Artagnan got a cup from the cupboard and selected a spring of dried meadowsweet from the bundle dangling from the rafters. He crumbled it into the cup, added a ladle of hot water.

It had been over two years now since he’d started taking meadowsweet tea to help with the pain in his leg: a cup after breakfast, a cup after supper, and sometimes an extra cup mid-morning as well. At first Aramis had brewed it for him. But before long he’d begun to make it for himself, and slowly it had become his ritual to drink it alone-- often the only part of his non-working hours that he spent apart from the others. He wasn’t sure how this had come about. But it was calming, somehow-- grounding-- and the others never begrudged him those few minutes to himself.

He sat back at the table while he drank his tea. The first few sips hurt his swollen throat, but slowly the heat began to soothe instead. He finished it slowly, watching the sunrise continue out the kitchen window.

The sun was just above the horizon, but the air had not warmed yet, when d’Artagnan went out to draw water from the well. He’d need a lot today. Not only did he need to see to the dishes, but to the laundry as well, and it was a few trips before he had enough. He filled the cauldron in the kitchen and the washroom. Then he kneaded the bread again and put the loaves in to bake.

He brought in some firewood and swept the floors while he waited for the water to heat; when finally it was hot enough, he washed the dishes, then went into the washroom.

D’Artagnan wasn’t quite sure how the laundry had become his responsibility. Porthos had noted once that it was everyone else’s least-liked chore, and had teased that part of their excitement at his arrival stemmed from his willingness to do it. But really, he hardly minded. There was something oddly relaxing about the process, and on spring evenings especially he truly enjoyed taking the clothes down from the line, feeling the leftover warmth of the sun, smelling the lavender he liked to infuse in the hot water.

Today was not quite spring. Nevertheless he found the steam from the cauldron followed by the bracing air just the thing his lungs needed to get working again, and despite all the bending and stretching involved he actually felt a little better when the laundry was finished being hung out to dry.

By now it was past mid-morning. D’Artagnan went back into the kitchen to find Athos removing the bread from the oven; there was cat fur on his trousers and he smelled like he’d been churning butter. Indeed he must have been, for he scooped a little from a jar and spread it on some steaming bread. He handed a piece to d’Artagnan and took a smaller piece for himself, and together they leaned against the worktable and ate their small lunch.

Upsettingly, though, Athos launched into a coughing fit before he could finish. D’Artagnan fetched him some cool water and tested him worriedly for fever, but Athos merely accepted the water and waved him off.

 _I’m fine_ , he mouthed when at last he’d stopped coughing. D’Artagnan sat close to listen to his breathing; it was indeed strong, if a bit sniffly. D’Artagnan gave him a handkerchief, turned aside to let him blow his nose.

Soup was in order, d’Artagnan decided, as Athos finished clearing his throat. He pushed to his feet, found the stock pot, and handed it to Athos expectedly. Athos smiled, nodded. D’Artagnan went down to the tiny root cellar, fetched a few onions and potatoes, and returned to the kitchen to find Athos already fixing a bone broth and setting it to boil.

Together they chopped the potatoes. D’Artagnan left Athos to chop the onions on his own-- of the four of them, they made him tear the least-- and went out of the house, to the grounds of the distillery.

The rest of the day slipped by quite quickly. Porthos was assisting Aramis in the distillery proper, bottling wine, sampling brandy, and sorting second orders. D’Artagnan checked on his newly-planted peas. Finished there, he went down into the orchards to pull the first shoots of weeds up from around the bases of the trees.

By the time he returned for supper, he’d almost forgotten about his lost voice. Seeing the others, though, as they all assembled in the kitchen, he remembered quite forcefully-- for he could not tell them about his day, could not tell them that he’d seen a handful of sprouting pea plants, could not them that they were almost out of onions. Could not tell Porthos that he’d seen that fox again. Could not ask Athos if he’d had another coughing fit since lunchtime.

All at once d’Artagnan felt a little lonely. It was stupid, really, for he was gathered in a cheery kitchen with the three people he loved most in the world; the air was warm and smelled of soup, and from the other room he could hear that the fire had been lit.

Still it was all very silent. He missed the sound of his friends’ voices, missed hearing his own name spoken aloud, missed the blurry mixture of French, Spanish, and Gascon that characterized their mealtime chatter.

But then, before the loneliess could seep too far down, Aramis’ arms were around him.

D’Artagnan sank gratefully into the familiar embrace, nuzzling against Aramis’ shoulder and taking a moment to feel his heartbeat, knocking against d’Artagnan’s chest as if it were his own.

Aramis held him for a minute or two. When they pulled apart, his eyes met d’Artagnan’s own, questioningly, but d’Artagnan nodded, smiled back at him.

He was fine. Really, he was-- just a bit silly, was all. So lonely for so long that loneliness was no longer an emotion of the moment, but a trait of the man himself, in the same way Aramis was caring, or Porthos was kind, or Athos was wise. D’Artagnan was lonely. But it did not afflict him as badly as it once had, for he was never far from a willing antidote.

They settled down around the table. Porthos ladled soup into everyone’s bowls, and they passed around bread and butter; there was wine to drink, and a small cup of brandy to aid with congestion.

Athos drank his brandy, and ate a little bread, but shrugged off the rest. Aramis’ eyes watched him, intently, as he got up from the table, fetched some milk from the pail, and set it to warm in a small pot over the fire.

Aramis rose, ushered Athos back down to his seat.

D’Artagnan watched Aramis frown at the milk, clearly weighing Athos’ need for something hardy against the fear of tempting additional congestion. In the end he fixed cups of both froth and chamomile tea.

Aramis had eaten more than Athos, but still not much. It didn’t seem to matter what ailment had struck him: he almost always came down with a stomachache, or at least a loss of appetite, so this was unsurprising. It was for this same reason that Porthos fetched some peppermint from the rafters. While Aramis made tea for Athos, Porthos made tea for Aramis, and when their paths crossed at the kitchen worktable, Porthos bumped Aramis’ hip gently with his own. Aramis looked up as though he hadn’t even noticed. Then a slow, tired smile spread over his face, and he accepted his cup from Porthos while Porthos delivered Athos’ cups to the table.

Porthos and d’Artagnan finished their meal while Athos and Aramis sipped their drinks. Never one to waste food, Porthos finished Aramis’ dinner; helpfully, d’Artagnan finished Athos’. Then the three of them helped with the dishes and went into the other room, leaving d’Artagnan to have his tea.

When he’d finished, he went into the sitting room to find a peaceful scene. The fire was crackling; Athos was reading on one bench, curled up under a blanket, and Porthos and Aramis sat side-by-side across the room. Neither leaned on the other. Instead they were almost a mirror image, pressed together at the shoulders, hips, knees, and feet; Porthos reading, Aramis praying silently.

D’Artagnan pushed Athos’ feet out of the way and sat. Athos promptly put his feet back in d’Artagnan’s lap, which he bore for a few minutes before it bothered his bad leg too much. He tapped Athos, who looked up, and understood to move immediately. Instead of reclining he sat, rested his head on d’Artagnan’s shoulder, and placed his book in d’Artagnan’s lap.

It was a book d’Artagnan had read before, and Athos wasn’t too far into it. D’Artagnan began to read along with him-- occasionally having to still Athos’ hand before it could turn to the next page.

A few chapters, later though, it was Athos who struggled to keep time. Before long d’Artagnan realized that he’d fallen asleep; he tucked Athos’ blanket a little tighter around his legs, and read on without him.

When Athos began to snore it was as startling as it was amusing. Athos never snored unless he was ill, typically as quiet asleep as he was awake; now, though, he was making an honest ruckus. And it sounded all the louder, compared to the silence of the day.

D’Artagnan bore it a little longer before glancing up at the others for help; he found Porthos watching them fondly. He gestured, and Porthos stood and came over.

He stooped, and made to haul Athos up into his arms; Athos woke before he could, though, nose wrinkling in displeasure. He pushed Porthos away, without force. Porthos desisted, but crouched down at his side and brushed Athos’ hair back from his face.

 _Bed_ , he mouthed, with his gentle sternness, and Athos smiled. Taking his blanket with him, he rose, regarded them all a moment, then went to bed.

D’Artagnan was not quite ready for sleep himself, yet. But he was close, and chilly now that Athos was no longer against him; besides, it was their unwritten rule that the last awake had to mind the fire. So d’Artagnan pushed to his feet as well. Porthos had settled back on the bench, and Aramis had fallen asleep in his lap. D’Artagnan went to them, bent down before them.

At some point within the last year, though nobody could quite remember when, Aramis’ hair had shifted from brown-with-silver to silver-with-brown. And he minded, they knew, though he never said. For his own part, d’Artagnan did not mind; in fact he found it beautiful, and loved to watch the fire throw light against the near-metallic strands. Once it might have reminded him of weapons. Now it reminded him of jewelry, of coins, of moonlight on water, and he could not stop himself from leaning over Aramis and brushing the thick silver curtain away from his face.

Aramis’ eyes cracked open. He parted his lips as if to speak; then, remembering, only smiled. A warm hand splayed out on the back of d’Artagnan’s neck. Then Aramis was pulling him down-- gently, always mindful of his balance-- and pressing a sleepy kiss against his cheek.

Well, the aim was probably for his cheek. In reality Aramis’ lips met the space between cheek and nose and lip, a strange place for a kiss, and d’Artagnan laughed against Aramis’ skin. Some sharpshooter.

Porthos chuckled, kissed d’Artagnan as well; then d’Artagnan took his leave of them, went down the hallway and into his room. He changed into his nightshirt, and settled in bed.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deleted Scene from _Honest Songs_ : Everybody wants Porthos cuddles when they've had a bad dream. This leads to some overcrowding.

D’Artagnan lurched awake, and for a moment he did not know where he was. It was longer than a moment, in fact; long enough that he could see what was around him well before he could actually understood what it meant.

In a bed-- all right, so not currently deployed, then.

But not his bed at the garrison-- far too large, and with far too many pillows--

Oh.

Yes, of course.

He was in his bed, but not at the garrison, because he did not live at the garrison any longer; he lived at the distillery, far from harm.

Funny how very difficult it was to convince his mind of this, sometimes.

D’Artagnan sat and scrubbed at his cheeks, unsurprised to find the coldness of old tears streaked across them. His heart was pounding frantically. His hands were shaking (though only a little, his pride noted), and the thought of closing his eyes again was somehow the only thing more terrifying than the thought of keeping them open.

It was the second time in one night his dreams had awoken him. The first, he’d been able to fall back asleep; this time that seemed unlikely and even a little unappealing.

But he would be strong, as he always had been. He’d be strong enough to do what had to be done.

Moving as quietly as he could, he rolled out of bed and crept down the hallway, stopping at Porthos’ door. He knocked, waited for a grunt, then cracked the door open.

“’m having a shitty night,” d’Artagnan muttered, leaning inside. “Can I--?”

“Yeah.” Porthos sounded sleepy, but kind as ever. “‘course.”

D’Artagnan closed the door, went over to the bed, and climbed in beside him. Porthos tugged the blankets up to their chests but did no more; he just lay there, breathing steadily, being big and warm and real. D’Artagnan sighed and closed his eyes. One of the things he appreciated most about Porthos was that he could tell when someone was upset and needed to be fussed over and chatted to-- and when someone was upset and just needed to be in somebody else’s presence. Just needed to be still, to feel safe.

He wasn’t sure he’d be able to sleep, but at least he had stepped back from the edge of true panic. And he’d passed far worse nights than resting beside a dear friend.

Though he thought he’d feel just _bit_ more comfortable actually being held; slowly he rolled over onto his side, fitting up to Porthos with wordless insistence--

“Uncle?”

D’Artagnan startled, but Porthos only laughed quietly. “Night for it,” he muttered. “We eat somethin’ funny f’r supper?”

Louder he called, as he climbed out of bed, “come ‘ere, _cheri_. I heard you.”

The door creaked open and Olivier crept inside, small in his nightclothes and pale in the light of his candle. “I had a terrible dream, and I-- oh.”

“It’s okay, Ollie,” Porthos soothed, as the boy held his candle up towards the bed. “You weren’t the only one who had a bad dream, tonight.”

“I can go in Papá’s room,” Olivier offered, hesitating.

“Mm. Don’t be silly.” Mindful of the candle, Porthos swung Olivier into his arms. “We’ll squish, eh? Your papa’s nice an’ all, but we all know who’s bigger and scarier to the monsters.”

“ _You_ are,” Olivier said, and sniffled, and d’Artagnan’s heart sank. It honestly nauseated him, the thought of going back to bed alone. But how selfish could he be, to intrude on this moment between uncle and nephew?

The mattress shifted as Porthos sat again, Olivier in his lap. Their quiet noises drifted to him, fresh sniffles interspersed with soothing words: “you’re safe with me, Ollie. Here, can I take the candle? You wanna blow it out for me? There you are. I’ve got you, little one. Let’s try to sleep again, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Olivier whispered, and d’Artagnan finally willed himself upright, just as Porthos plopped the boy down onto the middle of the mattress-- clearly still expecting d’Artagnan to be at the other edge.

Porthos’ sigh was almost too soft to be heard.

“Pup?”

“Mm.”

“I’m tired, an’ I’d really like to get back to sleep. So can you, just for once, not be stupid an’ stubborn, an’ come lay back down with us?”

“You don’t have to be shy about it, _gran frair_ ,” Olivier added. “I know grown-ups have bad dreams sometimes, too.”

“Right, but-- I don’t want to, um--”

Porthos huffed. “D’Artagnan.”

“Mm.”

“Lie down.”

“I feel extra safe when there’s two grown-ups, anyway,” Olivier added. “So now I can feel extra safe and we won’t have to wake up Papá!”

“How you gonna argue with that?” Porthos teased, and d’Artagnan sighed, won over. He sat back down, twisted to look at the others.

“Do you want to tell us about your dream?” Olivier offered. “I tell Uncle about mine sometimes, and it helps.”

“No, that’s all right, Ol. Do you want to tell us about yours?”

“No. Now that I’m not alone, it seems silly. I’m-- I’m not _really_ afraid of monsters, you know,” Olivier said, voice fading to a whisper. “Only sometimes they seem very real, in the dark.”

D’Artagnan felt his muscles loosen, as the last remaining blockade fell away.

“Do you want to know a secret, Ollie?” he asked, turning to be a little closer.

“Mm-hm.”

“You said you aren’t scared of monsters-- but I am. Grown up and everything, and I’m scared to death of them.”

“Are you?”

“Yeah.”

“But monsters aren’t real.”

There was, in Olivier’s voice, the smallest hint of uncertainty, and d’Artagnan smiled.

“No, you’re right. They aren’t. But sometimes I think-- if your mind remembers something bad, it turns that bad thing into a monster. And sometimes that makes it easier to think about, but sometimes it makes it even more frightening.”

“Are you frightened about the war?”

“Yes,” d’Artagnan whispered.

“But you’re here now. You live with us, and you’re safe.”

“I know. But I’m still very frightened. Is that silly?”

“No. It isn’t silly. Would you like to be in the middle?”

D’Artagnan huffed a laugh, and heard Porthos do the same. “No, that’s all right, Ol.”

“Well, make sure you cuddle close, at least.”

D’Artagnan did just that, lying down and pulling Ollie snug against his chest; Porthos’ arm draped over them, hand resting on d’Artagnan’s hip. The bed wasn’t big enough for them to fit any other way, honestly. But d’Artagnan did not think he could have been more comfortable in the feather bed of King Louis himself.

Just as he was letting his eyes close, the door cracked open.

Olivier squeaked as d’Artagnan grabbed him closer, ready and willing to shield the boy from whatever might arise--

But it was, of course, just Aramis.

D’Artagnan let go.

In the light of this new candle, he watched Olivier’s expression go from surprised to delighted-- to utterly alarmed, as he realized that there would not possibly be enough room for Aramis to join them in the bed.

“Did you have a nightmare too, Papá?” he fretted.

Aramis chuckled. “No, Olivier. I just thought I could hear all three of you in here, so I wanted to make you were all right.”

“We’re all right. D’Artagnan had a nightmare so he came to sleep with Uncle, but then _I_ had a nightmare too and _I_ came to sleep with Uncle, and we managed to fit ourselves, but I don’t think we can fit all four of us!”

“That’s all right, _hijo m_ _ío_ , I’ll be fine in my bed. Just wanted to check that you all were safe. Goodn--”

Olivier made a funny noise then, not quite a growl but not quite a moan, either. A little boy noise of little boy frustration. It stopped Aramis where he stood.

“I want you to stay here, too!” Olivier whined, finding his words now.

Aramis chuckled. “Olivier, I didn’t have a nightmare, sweetheart. I’m really all right to go back to my own room. You all get cozy, all right?”

“Don’t think that’s what he meant,” Porthos grunted, getting to his feet. “Hang on.”

And he ambled out of the room.

A moment later there was the scrape of wood, and Porthos’ voice calling, “hold that candle in the hall for me, wouldja?”

Aramis stepped out to do as he was asked, and a moment later Porthos was guiding something massive carefully around the angle of the door. Once through, he dragged it across the room and placed it beside his own bed.

Aramis burst out laughing. “Did you just-- carry Olivier’s bed in here?”

“Mm? Yeah.”

“There are things that shouldn’t surprise me-- but still do?”

Porthos merely grunted, and patted d’Artagnan’s backside until he scooted over, closer to the second bed, to make room for Porthos to climb in behind him. Olivier crawled over d’Artagnan, jumped onto his own bed.

“Now we can both be in the middle!” he chirped.

At least it was dark enough that nobody could see him blush, d’Artagnan thought, as Aramis made a noise of questioning.

“D’Artagnan wanted to be in the middle but he was being kind and said that I could,” Olivier explained. “But now you’re here and he and I can both be in the middle! Unless you or Uncle wants to.”

 “No, we’re fine being the bookends, _hijo m_ _ío_ ,” Aramis replied, fondly. Olivier wriggled closer; he and d’Artagnan were right up against the crack between the two beds and, wanting to be close but not wanting Olivier to slip in between, d’Artagnan reached out and held his little brother’s hands. Behind him, Porthos wrapped an arm around d’Artagnan’s waist.

On Olivier’s other side, d’Artagnan could make out Aramis’ outline adjusting the blankets before lying down as well. “Is everyone warm enough?”

“I’m warm enough, Papá,” Olivier sighed. “Are you warm enough, Uncle and d’Artagnan?”

Against his back, d’Artagnan could feel Porthos trying not to laugh. “I’m warm enough, _cheri_. But I’m pretty tired, too. Can we all just snuggle up an’ go to sleep now?”

“All right. Goodnight, everyone.”

This set off a short chorus of _goodnight_ ’s, but when they were finished a silence spread over the room; all that could be heard was four sets of breathing, and the soft scratch of fabric as Aramis rubbed Olivier’s back. Porthos shifted closer, moving as though only half awake.

And d’Artagnan closed his eyes again, thinking that perhaps he might sleep after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another random little bit, as I was home sick Friday. Managed to get pretty well into the third chapter of _Reprise_ , but I figured I'd take a minute to polish this cut scene up a bit as well. It didn't really fit anywhere into the pacing of _Honest Songs_ , though it's set a little while after d'Artagnan officially moves into the distillery. Maybe a two or three months later. It's just a silly little thing but I hope you enjoyed :)


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